By Jonathan Safran Foer
Sunday, July 13, 2008

ME

It was August 12, 1985, the first day of Summer Discovery Camp, at Murch Elementary, at which I had finished second grade only a few weeks before. I didn't want to go to camp. I wanted to spend my summer at home doing nothing, as I'd done every previous summer. I'd never been to sleep-away camp, and only a few times to a day camp. My mother used to say she didn't want us away.

I remember sitting on the floor of my parents' bedroom that morning. My father was standing in front of a steamed-over mirror, pulling the skin of his neck taut. My mother was kneeling before an open drawer. I used to love watching my parents do adult things -- write checks, sort mail, empty the dishwasher -- because it reminded me of the distance between us, which was what made them my parents, which was what made me safe.

MOM

It was your first week at summer camp, but actually the second session of the camp. We ended up registering you at the last minute, maybe even the morning of. Marta was with us, so she must have walked you to camp that day.

I was at work, at a relatively new job. I got a phone call from the school secretary saying that there had been an accident, that you were hurt -- but not badly -- and that you were at Children's Hospital. I don't know why I didn't ask any questions, but I don't think I did. You were always having little mishaps -- stitches, etc. -- so when she said it wasn't bad, I assumed it was something simple, and I was just going to pick you up. She might have said that you had a scar on your head, which made me assume stitches, but I can't remember.

I got in my car and tried to figure out how to make my way to the hospital from my new office. I remember clearly going up either 13th or 14th street -- I know I was between K and L streets (I can still see the spot) -- when I heard on the radio that there had been an "explosion" in a science lab at Murch Elementary and that kids were being medevaced to Children's Hospital. I stopped the car in the left lane of two-way traffic and rushed across the street to a fire station. I called Dad's office and told them to find him and tell him to meet me immediately at Children's Hospital.

From there, I don't know how I made my way to the hospital, but I did. When I got there, I left the car in the driveway of the ambulance emergency entrance because I had to get to you.

MY BROTHER

We had just started camp. In fact, we started camp later than the other kids -- about one week later. Mom hadn't committed us to any summer plans. I remember that entering the environment in medias res was anxiety-producing. We started the first day in the auditorium, where kids seemed to mill about before the first classes began. Friendships had already formed. Kids had already habituated themselves to the routine. We were outsiders, trying to keep pace. The accident, I think, happened on our third day in the camp.

ME

My mother drove us there that day, even though we lived less than half a mile away. I remember clinging to my older brother as children filtered in that morning. We were divided into groups -- I think it was according to age -- and my brother was separated from me. My group began the day in a science class. The instructor was a graduate student at American University. I remember him being short and somewhat muscular. His hair was brown, I think, and curly. The few times I've searched for him on the Internet I've been overtaken by anger and unable to proceed. (I'm never angry at him unless I'm searching for him.) When I finally felt ready to write about the explosion, I went looking for the memories of those affected. The instructor either never received the e-mails I sent to him via his current place of employment, or he decided not to respond. From the others came several typed pages. Of the instructor, my mother wrote only this: "I think [he] once came and visited us to apologize, but I'm not sure about that."

One of my responses to the explosion was to lose the ability to express, and perhaps even to feel, anger. I never fought with my parents or siblings, and still don't, and don't fight with strangers, friends or my wife. Since I was 9 years old, I have not raised my voice to anyone. But thinking about the instructor, now, brings something ugly to my skin. I hope that one of his friends, with whom he's never shared the story, is reading this and will bring it to his attention. But there's another part of me, which he also had a hand in creating, that wants to protect even him.

DAD

I was at a meeting downtown when I received a call that my son was in an explosion at Murch and that Mom was on her way to the hospital. I recall starting to shake so much that, although someone offered to loan me his car, I thought it would be better to take a cab. I had no idea what had happened, how serious it was or, in fact, who was injured. Somehow, I assumed it was your brother.

ME

The chemistry class was supposed to be an astronomy class but was switched at the last minute when an instructor took ill. Our first project was to make sparklers, which we would use at the festival at the end of camp.

We were divided into groups of four, each of which had a table with a bowl in the middle of it. At my table were my best friend, Stewart, one of my classmates, Puja, and a boy I'd never met. At the front of the room, by the chalkboard, were glass vials containing various chemicals. The sparkler "recipe" was written on the board, and I remember (and have had my memory corroborated by various legal documents) that we were to use half of the amounts instructed. I remember thinking that was strange. Why not just write out the proper amounts? The instructor said it was "basically a recipe for gunpowder, with a little extra."

The first time Stewart was allowed to see me outside of his hospital room, we spent the afternoon in the cafeteria of Children's Hospital with a pen and paper, trying to remember the names of as many of the chemicals as we could. No adult asked us to do this.

In the center of each table was a large bowl. We stirred the chemicals that less than an hour later would be removed from the school by a bomb disposal unit of the D.C. police. I remember the chalkboard, the chalk that had collected on the ledge that held the erasers. I remember looking out the window across the room and envisioning the celebration at the end of camp. It was a sunny day. I was by the door. The tables were covered in newspaper. I remember how we took turns mixing the chemicals. What did we mix with? Why was I by the door? What were the headlines of the newspaper on our table? The explosion burned them, and us. The following day, we were in the paper.

MY BROTHER

I was sitting in computer class, playing a video game on one of the old Apples that they had lined up against all four walls. The computer room had a special thick door to shut out thieves. Because of that door, even though I was just down the hall, the sound of the explosion failed to penetrate our room. We didn't know that anything had happened until out-of-breath firemen appeared at the door. They told us to evacuate the building. We went down to the playground and milled about, joking around without a sense of what had transpired. My counselor came and grabbed me. "Your brother's been hurt," he said. We went inside to the principal's office. I saw you walking with an authority figure of some sort. Your face looked red, and you looked shellshocked, but you didn't look that bad. I'm not sure that we even exchanged words you were whisked by so fast. (For some reason, I think that the teacher who presided over the explosion was the one who escorted you. He had long shaggy hair, big glasses and wore shorts.)

ME

At some point, maybe 10 minutes into class, I went to the bathroom. I didn't have to go to the bathroom, but I didn't want to be in the classroom anymore. I have a very distinct memory of hearing a boy whistle at the urinal as he peed. (I later learned, from a news story, that the boy was in the hallway when the explosion happened.) I dawdled a bit on my way back and drank some water I didn't really want. I remember counting the holes that made the fountain's drain.

Eventually, I went back into the room. My table was closest to the door, but I didn't go to it. I lingered, reading the list of chemicals on the blackboard. I imagined myself on the other side of the window, at the end of camp, holding a lit sparkler.

I remember a flash of light becoming many flashes of light, quickly and powerfully. When I try to put myself there, I remember it as being similar to the feeling of being jolted from half-sleep by the sensation of falling. (Or maybe I have it backward. Maybe I am awoken from half-sleep by my memory of the explosion?) I don't remember colors or sounds so much as force. I remember screaming. I don't remember the door, but I must have opened it to get out of the room. Did I open it with my hands? Did the sparks shower the room? Somehow, I know that they did. I was the first one out. Did I push the door open or pull it?

PUJA

I heard a huge bang. I don't remember seeing anything for a few seconds. I could hear the fire alarm ringing and children shouting. I remember being shoved out the door into the hallway. When I got out of the classroom, I looked directly ahead. There was the long corridor, lined with lockers. A few feet in front of me, I saw an adult patting down a child who appeared to be on fire. All the other children were running to the staircase. I don't remember moving, but somehow I ended up on the playground outside.

ME

I remember running but getting nowhere. Minutes passed that I can't account for. Strong hands on my shoulders. Someone grabbed me. An adult. Who? Rows of lockers streamed passed. It isn't mentioned in any of the records, but I can't let go of the memory of running full speed and headfirst into a locker. It would have knocked me unconscious and couldn't have happened.

I remember seeing my older brother in a line of students evacuating a nearby classroom. (Yellow smoke, I later read, poured out of the room I'd just left.) He was toward the end of the line. He called my name. We waved to each other, the kind of waves people give toward the windows of departing trains. He doesn't mention any of this in the letter he wrote with all of his memories of that day. He says the first time he saw me was in the principal's office, and I have no memories of that encounter. Which of us was on the train and which on the platform?

MY BROTHER

I returned to the playground. Adults made us clear the blacktop. On the other side, you could see that the ambulances had parked close to the building. A big noisy helicopter landed. In the distance, I could see paramedics in jumpsuits and helmets pushing kids on gurneys. I thought that you were one of those kids. As soon as the helicopter took off, I decided to run home as fast as I could. I didn't tell anyone that I was leaving. I just left and cried all the way home.

ME

Then I remember seeing Stewart, who was my best friend, with whom I had spent thousands of hours of my childhood making movies, and discussing the relative values of comic books, and looking up bad words in the dictionary, and playing H-O-R-S-E on the hoop above the door of his parents' garage, and eating candy on curbs, and playing Nintendo, and honing our plans to conquer the world. He, too, had dark hair. And he, too, wore glasses. One Halloween, we wore no costumes and told everyone we were each other.

Stewart was slumped on the floor, his back against a locker. His feet were straight in front of him. He was 9 years old. His glasses were crusted over with a hard black ash, like burnt sugar. He said, "Jonny?" breaking a film around his mouth.

"Stewart?"

"Is that you?"

I said, "Your skin is peeling off of your face."

He didn't move.

"What do I look like?" I asked.

"You look normal."

"Is the skin peeling off of my face?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

I asked him again.

He said, "Your skin is red. Your forehead and nose."

"My skin isn't peeling off?"

"No."

"Do I have skin on my face?"

"Yes."

"Do you promise?"

He promised.

He was 9 years old, and his promise must have been informed by shock, and fear, and confusion, and pain, and wanting his mother. His promise put distance between us. It was the most good thing anyone has ever done.

STEWART

I asked for Stewart's blessing before embarking on this essay. He said, "I figured you'd write about the explosion one day." The explosion has been written about before, and Stewart has contributed to a few pieces of writing about injured children. But I wasn't the author.

Despite him being so fundamental to this story, I never asked for his memories. Whatever were my intentions, this piece is a mirror in which I can examine the extent to which I have recovered from that event of 23 years ago. Asking Stewart to help me construct this mirror would feel too close to asking him if there was skin on my face.

ME

I have no memory of screaming "Help!" But, while in the hospital, I saw a news report in which a student described seeing a boy running through the halls screaming "Help!" I knew it was me.

Someone picked me up and carried me downstairs. A teacher, probably. Or a parent. I remember hearing, "It's okay, it's okay," while we descended the stairs. I can't even remember if it was a man or a woman.

Firemen were already streaming into the building. I was put in a room with the camp director. I told him I was thirsty. He gave me seltzer. It was the only cold drink he had. He called the company that insured Summer Discovery and asked me question after question so he could relay the information. "How many kids were hurt? How badly hurt? What do you think happened?" Months later, he sent my parents a check, refunding them 50 percent of the $165 they'd paid to enroll me in the camp. He ended the accompanying letter with either, "I remain respectfully yours" or "I remain regretfully yours." I can't make out his handwriting.

I was taken by a fireman into the school office. I think we were going there to call my parents, although I later learned that they'd already been notified by that point and were on the way to the hospital. The other boy from my table was stretched out on the principal's sofa, with four or five EMTs working on him. It was a brown leather sofa. What was on the walls of the office? Think.

I remember large peels of skin hanging loosely from his body. I remember the bright pink of the exposed flesh. His hair had been singed. I smelled it. His fingernails were missing. Had they melted? He was flailing wildly. Two firemen were holding down his shoulders, and two his ankles. He looked directly at me, but I don't know if he saw me. He screamed, but no sound came out.

In an article detailing their case against the city, the family's lawyer told a reporter: "You can imagine a 9-year-old kid, what it did to his soul, his mind, his spirit."

My second day in the hospital, I passed a number of his relatives at the entrance to the intensive care unit. I remember worrying that underneath their kindness they hated me for being able to walk around. They asked me all sorts of questions about what happened. I didn't know the answers, and didn't want to be asked. "It was a real hard battle," his father said after the trial that awarded their family what was said to be the largest compensation in the history of the District of Columbia. "It sort of broke my heart. You say to yourself, in life you take risks. But when you take your kid to school, you expect everything is okay."

What scares me most, when I think about that boy, is not the image of him flailing on the couch, or his silent scream, but the thought of those minutes between the explosion and arrival of the fire department, the possibility of him being alone with his suffering.

MOM

When I ran in, you were still in the emergency room lying on a gurney with Principal Gill holding something on your head to alleviate the pain of the burn -- or to comfort you. I must have looked hysterical, because she kept saying, "He's okay, he's okay." But then, she knew about Stewart and the other boy, and I didn't.

Stewart's mom was also there, but his father was out of town (in Detroit, I think). She seemed calm, and I was the crazy one, which I don't understand. They wanted us to go fill out paperwork to admit you and Stewart. I told them, "I want to be with my son!"

STEWART'S MOM

Before I went in to see Stewart, they handed me his sneakers. At that moment, it seemed overwhelming -- that something horrible had happened and maybe he wouldn't need them again. But I was later told that the staff was just being practical -- that sneakers were expensive and families appreciated having them returned.

I could see that the burns affected his face, neck, hands and arms. He was conscious and talking -- complaining that they kept asking him his name and how to spell it. He was alternately hot and cold. They had several heat lamps focused on him because they could not put a blanket on him until he was bandaged. He started asking about when he could go home and didn't stop asking that until the day he left the hospital for good five weeks later.

ME

There were first- and second-degree burns across my face, neck and hands. For reasons no one was ever able to explain, the dispersion of chemicals through the room had turned my exposed skin silver. (It stayed that way for a couple of days.) I was in a triage room with Puja, and her mother arrived before mine. That was when I cried for the first time that day. Puja's mother asked me if I needed a hug.

PUJA

Then I remember being in the hospital emergency room waiting for my parents. Your mom had already arrived, which made me need mine even more. When my mom finally came, the doctor explained to her that I had second- and third-degree burns on my forehead and under my eye. The goggles must have saved my vision. I stayed in the hospital overnight for the first time in my life. For the next several months, my parents would have to clean the burnt areas and apply ointment. When school started, I was told that I would have to stay in during recess to avoid contact with the sun. Somehow, the school year passed, and my wounds healed. I rarely thought about that day. For a few years afterward, the skin on my forehead would get agitated if I sat close to a fireplace or campfire. Today, all that remains is a scar on my left middle finger.

ME

I spent the night in the hospital, my mother in bed with me, my father on the floor. Doctors were in and out all night. One thought I could go home the next day. Another thought I would need skin grafts on my hands. I remember my mother going for walks around the hospital with Stewart's father, Richard, who had arrived in the late afternoon. She offered to let him stay in my room with us. I told her I didn't want anyone else in the room. She said something about friendship or loneliness or need. What does it even mean to be a good person in a situation like that? I was hurt, but not badly, and not hurt at all when compared to what had happened to Stewart. But that doesn't mean I wasn't hurt.

MOM

The next thing I really remember is your hospital room. There was a chair near the window, where I ended up spending the night, although I never slept.

When Richard arrived, he came in to see us. We hugged and cried. He and I kept walking up and down the halls of the hospital during the night. He said he felt responsible for talking us into sending you to the program. I can't remember what you and I talked about in the hospital -- I think it was mostly about any discomforts you may have had.

STEWART'S MOM

Richard and I settled into a routine such that he spent the night in Stewart's room -- that is, after the first few nights when he was forced to sleep on the plastic chairs in the waiting room -- and I spent the day at the hospital. We worked very hard to try to have one of us at home when [Stewart's little brother] woke up and the other to put him to bed at night.

In between operations for skin grafting, we spent many, many hours reading to Stewart. We first had asked our friends to send us books, but after my voice gave out from the hours of reading, we moved onto books on tape.

In the midst of everything, Stewart developed pancreatitis -- according to the doctors, it was caused by the combination of morphine and the burns. Because he was not permitted to eat until it subsided, he needed yet another trip to the operating room to have an intravenous food line inserted into his chest. He couldn't bear to watch television anymore because of all of the commercials for food products. Many hours were spent by Stewart trying to persuade someone on the staff to give him some gum. After several days, Stewart's primary care doctor permitted him to have half a piece of chewing gum, much to the dismay of the other doctors.

In those first few weeks, all of the hospital personnel came to Stewart, e.g., lab technicians, physical therapists, X-ray equipment, as well as the hospital psychiatrist assigned to Stewart (and us). It was a relief after the grafting procedures were completed to start moving around the hospital, especially down to the physical and occupational therapy facilities. Once he moved from intensive care to the regular burn unit ward, Stewart stepped up his requests about coming home. At night, he and Richard would plot strategies for daring escapes from the hospital.

Shortly before he was discharged, Stewart was permitted to come home for an afternoon and for dinner. One of the hardest things we had to do was force him to return to the hospital at the end of that day. It had been a test of all of us -- whether we would follow through on the medical care while he was home (and whether he would permit us to do so, which was sometimes a problem after he was discharged). We passed the test, but I have to say that all three of us were crying on that trip back to the hospital.

MY BROTHER

Dad took me to Children's Hospital. We ran into Stewart's father. He was a wreck. Very teary and huggy. He told us about skin grafts and plastic drapes covering Stewart. We ran into the other boy's father, who seemed like he was sleepwalking. When I finally saw you, you seemed to be the rather jolly Jonathan that I knew so well. But that was before you went to visit Stewart for the first time, I think.

ME

My body recovered quickly. I wore gauze over my hands for a couple of weeks, and the skin blistered and molted. I had a series of range-of-motion exercises to do every day, to encourage the skin to grow back with the proper elasticity. My piano teacher came to visit. I'd always had a crush on her and was grateful, for the first time, for my injuries.

My father kept notes of my emotional and physical progress in the months that followed, in case he and my mother decided to sue the city. (They never did.) Here's a note written on September 15, 1985:

Took Jonathan to Redskin football game. Was OK while sitting in shade. But as soon as sun found us, in 2nd half, he was distressed and had to move almost immediately into shade. Spent 2nd half standing against a wall.

MOM

The hardest thing was going to see Stewart. I think it was before we left the hospital, but it may have been on one of your return checkups, that one of the nurses suggested that you visit him. They told us that only his parents and you could go in to see him, so we couldn't even walk you there. They said that it would mean a lot if you went. You were justifiably scared of seeing what he looked like. I remember you telling me that at the accident scene you looked at him and asked him if you looked like he did. You cried and really didn't want to go, but you knew that you had to.

ME

I remember a nurse taking me from my parents at the burn unit's swinging doors. I made them repeat that they would wait there until I came back. I was led down a long hallway. A young girl, no older than 5, passed. Half of her face had been burned off.

Stewart was completely wrapped in gauze, with only his eyes, nose and mouth exposed. Machines surrounded him. His parents were sitting at his side. I must have gone to visit him 30 times while he was in the hospital. As he recovered, I was sent in with toys for him. They -- his family, his doctors -- were trying to encourage him to use his hands. They knew that he'd be more inclined if he thought he was playing with me, rather than performing exercises. They asked me to tell him he was looking better and better.

Sometimes we talked like adults, sometimes like children. I used to ask him what it was like to be bathed by nurses. He told me it was embarrassing at first, but actually really nice once you got used to it. I told him about school -- I'd gone back that fall, while he was still in the hospital. He had such a voracious curiosity, and too much composure for his years. I can't remember him once telling me that something hurt or that there was anything unfair about what had happened.

Did I ever actually say to my parents that I didn't want to go? Did I ever utter the words themselves? Is it possible that they didn't see or intuit the profundity of my fear, that it was death to me? It was the right thing to go. Right for whom? Anger is coming up as I write these words, and so is forgiveness. At whom am I really angry, and whom do I forgive?

Stewart was conscious and able to talk that first time I visited him. I was afraid of silence between us. I feared silence as much as I feared the machines, and doctors, and children without skin.

He asked me how I was doing.

DAD

September 2, 1985

Shadyside, Maryland. Sunscreen #15 on face and played football catch (gauze glove on hand) for 15 minutes. After lunch, with sunscreen #15 on hands and face, went into swimming pool for 25 minutes. Came out, put more sunscreen #15 on, and went directly into house, where he felt burning on forehead for a few minutes.

September 3, 1985

Washington, D.C. After being driven to school, Jonathan was outside for about one minute. When he entered the school with its cooler temperature, he slowly began to feel burning on his forehead and a little lower on his face. The pain caused him to cry. Mrs. Simpson came to him after another child told her he was crying. The pain stopped when he was comforted.

September 4, 1985

Dear [Principal], We are concerned about Jonathan's schooling this year. He is still suffering the effects of the explosion. Painful burning feelings on his face after the briefest exposure to the sun brought him to tears. He will have to skip recesses and outdoor P.E. for the time being.

We will watch this closely and hope that his academic desires and needs can be met. We'd like to set up a time to meet with you at your convenience.

Sincerely,

Mr./Mrs. Foer

MY BROTHER

When Mom and Dad would go out for the night, you would cry for hours, asking me what would happen to us if they were in a car accident and died.

ME

I remember a friend's sleepover birthday party. This must have been 1988. There were about 15 children there, roughhousing, playing video games. I went up to bed early, but couldn't sleep. I cried in my sleeping bag. I was afraid that one of the other children was going to play a prank and light me on fire.

DAD

September 11, 1985

Principal [name] called Esther [Mom] in response to our earlier letter. She noted that Jonathan has seemed to her to be much more "withdrawn and pensive" since the accident.

Jonathan had a science class today in the room where the explosion occurred. He measured the table and noted that the burn marks are still on it.

September 20, 1985

Still has problems with sun, and is worried about sports where his face might get hit. Is reluctant to use his hands.

ME

The space shuttle Challenger exploded in 1986, the year after "my" explosion. Christa McAuliffe was to be the first teacher in space, so like many students, I watched the liftoff live. We watched it in the same room that my explosion occurred.

We know, now, that the Challenger didn't explode, per se, but broke apart. Four of the crew members initiated their emergency oxygen controls as they descended to the ocean, and while NASA refused to release the transcripts of the voice recordings, it did acknowledge that the astronauts were "aware of their fates" and that one could be heard to say, "Please, hold my hand."

We form new skin over our wounds, and we shed skin. Stewart had skin taken from his thigh and grafted onto his forehead, and, like everyone else, my childhood is grafted onto my adulthood. These pages are a kind of skin. But I don't know if these words are sutures or bruises.

Amazingly, camp resumed the day after the explosion. In a newspaper article, Matthew Levinson, a camper who was in the classroom with my older brother when the explosion happened, told a reporter: "We're not doing any more chemistry, but we're doing biology, studying cells. We used our fingers to scrape cells from inside our mouths, and we put samples under a microscope. We learn more in one day here than in a couple of weeks in regular school."

. . .

Jonathan Safran Foer is author of the novels Everything Is Illuminated and Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close. He grew up in Washington. He can be reached at 20071@washpost.com.